THE SHREW AND SOCRATES
by Bellegeste
Summary: In the summer after the fifth year, a new neighbour moves into Privet Drive. Harry has to reevaluate some previous assumptions... Tumbleweed Challenge story. One shot.


Author's Note: This is a one shot I wrote for the Panic Parables' Tumbleweed Challenge. Setting is post OotP, in the summer holidays.

(In case anyone thought this was going to be the sequel to Snape's Confession, I will be loading that any day now. Watch this space!)

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of JKR and her publishers. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Tumbleweed Challenge**

**The Shrew and Socrates**

By Bellegeste

_Barking... Dogs barking... Black dogs barking... Two, black dogs, ferociously barking, salivating, dripping yellow fangs bared in a vicious snarl... they were closing in, mean killers working as a team, forcing him backwards, backing him towards the evil darkness of the arch... pausing now, lean haunches bracing in that instant of stillness, gathering for the final, fatal lunge at the unprotected neck... Harry flung himself sideways, ducking, rolling over and away, the scream dying in his throat as the jaws clamped onto his jugular, ripping the breath from his body..._

With an agonised whoop Harry dragged air into his bursting lungs and sat bolt upright in bed, gasping. His heart was hammering in his chest, adrenalin coursing; every muscle tensed, poised for flight - if he had had anywhere to go. It was a warm, muggy night, but he could feel the rivulets of cold sweat trickling between his shoulder blades, chilling on his skin, pooling on the soaked sheets. He was shivering. His hands were trembling, weak after that defensive, desperate surge of energy.

He peeled off his clammy, damp t-shirt and used it to mop his face, his chest, under his arms, then hurled it in a sodden ball, acrid with the scent of fear, into the corner of the room.

He knew he had shouted out loud in his sleep. And any moment now...

The bedroom door crashed open and Uncle Vernon's pyjama clad bulk filled the doorway.

"Boy! What do you think you're playing at, boy? Waking the whole house in the middle of the night! Every bloody night. I tell you, boy, we'll not stand for it! One more sound from you..." He shuffled off, slamming the door behind him, ensuring that the household, if not already disturbed, was now most certainly awake.

It was fortunate for Harry that at 4 am Vernon Dursley was too stupefied with sleep to enforce his threats. They would wait for the morning...

_Every bloody night..._ Vernon was, unfortunately, correct. Every night was the same. Night after night. Not always the same details, not always dogs - sometimes it was snakes, sometimes ghoulishly hooded figures, the green curses blasting him with deathly hatred from all directions... always pushing him back towards the lethal maw of the stone archway...

Every night since he had left the protective security of Hogwarts and the reassuring presence of the Order and the comforting oblivion of Madam Pomfrey's _Dreamless Sleep_... every night his tortured mind dragged him back to the arch. Every night his own screams mingled with the dying cries of his godfather as Sirius disappeared through the black veil.

Harry was almost ready to join him. He dreaded the night time. He was exhausted, but he found no respite in sleep. It mocked him like a maze, promising blissful rest but leading inexorably, inescapably on to the treacherous heart of the maze, down the devious, dark route to the arch-shaped core of his nightmares...

Somewhere nearby Harry could still hear dogs barking.

x x x

The greasy smell of sausages and bacon made him feel sick, but Harry cooked the Dursleys' breakfast as usual, trying to get it over with as quickly and efficiently as possible, trying not to provoke further comment, or draw attention to himself in any way. After another an interrupted night, however, Uncle Vernon was not in the best of moods.

"Get on with it, boy! Some of us haven't got all day, while you stand there gawking like a brainless lummock. You're not here to look out of the window. Get this lot cleared up sharpish."

He slurped his tea with relish, little brown droplets bedewing the ends of his moustache, and ladled a generous helping of brown sauce onto his plate from a cow-shaped, hand-painted Royal Doulton gravy boat. Aunt Petunia would not allow sauce bottles on the table. He chewed wetly for a few minutes. Then, wiping his face on a napkin with a 'harumph' like a mating walrus, he stood up and pointed a fat, accusing finger at Harry.

"And don't for one second think I've forgotten that bloody nonsense in the night. Screaming the house down! I ask you! What do you think this is - Bedlam? A lunatic asylum? If that's what you want, that could be arranged. It's about time you had your head examined, though heaven help anyone who tries to make any sense of the rubbish that goes on inside your brain. There are places for boys like you, and I don't just mean _St. Brutus's_. We can have you put away, you know; locked-up. And, personally speaking, I would have no hesitation in telling them to throw away the key!"

_Couldn't be any worse than here_, thought Harry, but he kept it to himself - he was learning to keep a lid on his temper.

At this Aunt Petunia looked round at Vernon sharply, her thin lips pursed. Reluctantly she let the net curtains drop into place and she fiddled for a moment, adjusting the lacy folds just so.

"What's so interesting out there, woman? You've been twitching those nets for the past half hour. Manure arrived, has it?"

Uncle Vernon's face was a study in self-satisfied malice.

"Best mulch that money can buy. Fifty bags of it. And you, my lad, are going to spread it on the rose beds, if you know what's good for you. No lunch until every bag is empty. Hear that, Petunia, 'no lunch'? So, what _are_ you looking at?"

Aunt Petunia patted her hair and smoothed her hands down over the front of her lemon yellow twin-set, in an uncharacteristic primping gesture. She seemed unusually flustered.

"Someone's moving in next door," she answered. "I haven't got a good look at them yet. Can't see any children..." She was peering out again, her eyes joining those of the other curious curtain twitchers at neatly netted windows all up Privet Drive. "Pity, I was hoping there might be a nice, suitable boy for darling Duddi-kins to make friends with. We shall have to introduce ourselves. Be neighbourly. Take round a house-warming present. It's the 'done thing'. We want to make the right impression. What do you think would be appropriate, dear? Perhaps I should bake a cake..."

"Pot plant," grunted Uncle Vernon. "I seem to remember everyone gave us a pot-plant when we moved in here. And they've all of 'em died except that ghastly cactus. Now that's an idea - give 'em the cactus. I'll be glad to see the back of it. Ugly, spiky thing. Doesn't even flower. It's probably pining for the Arizona desert - wants to be back where it belongs in some god-forsaken rocky outcrop, with the tumbleweed and rattlesnakes. Good chance to get rid of the bloody thing."

"Vernon Dursley!" Petunia exclaimed in mock outrage. She had moved across the room and was now standing protectively in front of the much maligned plant. It was a large Opuntia, one of the slightly hairy varieties, prickly, but with its spines concealed beneath the white, wispy beard. It had seen better days: some of its pads bore the scars of mealy-bug attack; it leaned rather precariously to the left and had long outgrown the small wooden stick pushed into the compost to support it.

"I'll have you know that I had this plant before we moved here, before we were even married. And it does flower - once every seventeen years. I can prove it - I've got a picture of it somewhere." She began to rifle through the top drawer of the reproduction Queen Anne bureau, finally producing a small, faded photograph, the colours blueing with age.

"There. I knew I'd kept it. You see, Vernon - cactus in flower!"

She handed him the picture and he viewed it, unimpressed. Harry could see a junior version of the Opuntia with several bell-shaped florets sprouting from the segments. He was more interested in the fleeting glimpse he had of Aunt Petunia – youthfully unrecognisable. She had always been slim, so her figure had not changed much, but in the photograph her hair was loose, not scraped back in her normal, severe bun, and she was smiling, relaxed, softer somehow. It reminded Harry of... ...of his mother.

That shocked him. It had always seemed impossible to believe that the two of them were related, they were so different; and yet, here was the proof.

"Lemon drizzle sponge, then." Petunia, replacing the photo in the drawer, answered her own question. "I'll bake one this morning, and Harry can pop round with it later, once he's finished in the garden. Better not leave it too late, though, otherwise that nosey busybody at Number 17 will beat us to it with her raspberry flap-jacks..."

x x x

Harry rapped three times on the door of Number 6. The 'Cathedral Chimes' bell seemed to have been disconnected. He didn't have to wait long.

"Yeah? Whaddya want?"

A workman had answered the door. Or maybe he was a labourer or a gardener. Harry gulped. This guy was big - body-building big – and tall, at least six foot, with a bull neck, solid, blue-veined biceps, and probably a six-pack beneath the string vest. His arms, shoulders and the part of the thick, muscular back that Harry could see were covered in indigo/red tattoos - dragons, a lion's head, a coiled serpent, some kind of lotus blossom, sinuous, scaly fish... Perhaps he was a sailor. He was hairy too: Harry recoiled at the sight of the dark rug sprouting on the man's chest and his bulging forearms covered in a dense, wiry forest.

"Yeah?" he repeated.

Harry gabbled the prepared sentence.

"I'm from next door, and my Aunt Petunia has sent this cake for the new people. She'd come to say 'hello' herself, but she's busy."

Busy peering through the curtains, no doubt. Harry hadn't understood why he had to be the one to make the requisite neighbourly overtures, but he was beginning to see why his Aunt might have been a trifle reticent about coming over herself. The hulk grinned and took the cake. Sandy hair, pale grey eyes, bland, good-natured, open features.

"Dirk." He held out a brawny hand. Harry shook it cautiously.

"I'm Harry." He wondered if he should go, now that the cake was safely delivered.

"Wanna come in? Beer?" The guy expertly flicked the cap off a Budweiser with his thumb-nail. Harry winced, but took the bottle. Aunt Petunia didn't allow him to drink beer. Then the man pulled a knife from the lining of his jack-boot and hacked the cake into four. Petunia would have been in agonies of breached etiquette.

"Iago! Tybalt!" He shouted. From the back of the house came a sudden scrabbling - sharp claws on tiled floors - and two, full-grown, powerful, glossy, black Rottweilers pounded into the room, ears alert. Harry blanched and took a step backwards. These were the dogs from his dream.

"They won't hurt you. Got 'em well trained. **Sit**!" The two black demons obediently lowered their haunches and sat, muzzles lifted hopefully. Dirk was watching Harry.

"Gone a bit green there, mate. Not into dogs? Get stuck into this 'ere cake. Looks a belter." So saying, he chucked a quarter of the sponge to each dog, took a slice himself and handed the remainder to Harry. "Take the weight off..." He indicated a packing case, and perched on the edge of one which groaned under his bulk. Harry followed suit.

"So, is it just you and your Aunt?" Dirk asked. Harry couldn't place his accent. North London with a hint of something flatter, broader; quite a rough voice, but not coarse, not stupid. Harry made a mental note to be careful.

"My Uncle Vernon lives there too. And I have a cousin, Dudley. They'll probably come round later to introduce themselves."

"Saw you in the garden, before." Dirk took a massive swig at his beer, draining the bottle. "Do a lot of that, do you - gardening? 'Cos I could do with a hand here - knock the garden into shape. Decorating too - going to blitz this whole place, starting with this cruddy carpet..." He kicked at the swirly-pattered Wilton, which to Harry, appeared almost new. "And that cutesy crap on the ceiling!" He jerked his thumb upwards towards the perfectly symmetrical 'Artex' circles which iced the ceiling like a prize-winning Christmas cake. "I'll pay you. Think about it. Come round tomorrow morning. Hope my dogs didn't keep you awake - noisy beggars. Stir crazy after being in the van. Thank your Aunt for us, will you. Nice meeting you, Harry."

It was all very polite, in a blunt sort of a way. Harry found himself back on the doorstep, dismissed, having accomplished only half his mission. He had learned almost nothing about the new occupant of Number Six, Privet Drive.

"Neighbourly! I'll give you neighbourly!" growled Uncle Vernon. "Don't know what the world's coming to! To think, this was once a select neighbourhood. And now look at it! Lowering the tone... It'll have an effect on property values, you mark my words! Once the rot sets in... Bah!" He threw down his unread copy of Whinging Weekly in disgust. "Tattoos? The fellow's a barbarian!"

"He may be quite pleasant, once you get to know him." Aunt Petunia was, oddly enough, defending the new neighbour. "He may look perfectly respectable in a suit and tie. It was unfortunate that Harry caught him unprepared, as it were; while he was unpacking."

"Respectable, my foot!" fumed Uncle Vernon, not at all mollified. "The man has a _pony-tail_, for goodness' sake! What does that make him? Some arty-farty, lily-livered, foppish, intellectual..."

Harry felt he had to try to set the record straight.

"Uncle Vernon, he's built like a Chieftain tank. He's not remotely arty. He looks more like he's just come off an oil-rig. And his name's Dirk."

"Hah! Dirk! What kind of a poncey name is that?"

"It rather suited Dirk Bogarde." Aunt Petunia murmured. "He was very suave in the 'Doctor' films. The debonair Dr Simon Sparrow! And what about 'The Spanish Gardener'?" She was a closet fan of the Sunday afternoon films on ITV.

"Pschaw! A lot of camp posturing in tight trousers! An ac-tor!" Vernon made it rhyme with 'back door'. "Proves my point, Petunia - it's a name for arty poofters. We can do without his sort in Little Whinging. We don't want him corrupting our Dudley."

Aunt Petunia gave a tiny squeak of alarm. She hadn't thought of that.

"So, he said he'd pay you to do his garden did he?" Vernon addressed Harry. "How much?" Harry's moral safety was clearly of no concern. "Because, of course, if you're earning..." He gave Harry a gloating leer. "...you can contribute to your upkeep..."

Harry sighed. He'd never get a chance to spend it anyway. It would be worth it, just to get out of the house and away from the Dursleys for a few hours.

x x x

"Another beer?"

Harry suspected they might get more work done if they drank less and weeded more, but it was a hot day and he was thirsty. Dirk didn't seem too bothered about the slow progress. It was good to have an excuse to stop digging. Harry massaged his forehead, over his scar - he'd had a nagging headache for a couple of days now, and it wasn't getting any better.

"You OK?" Dirk was leaning on his fork, downing the contents of another 'Bud'.

"Yeah, it's this muggy weather, I think. And maybe the beer." Harry was beginning to think he'd already drunk too much; his head was reeling.

"Let's go inside a bit. We can talk. Get many headaches, do you? What do you do for entertainment in this place? Got many friends round here?"

This guy asked a lot of questions. Harry had noticed that. Somehow he managed to give nothing away about himself, while getting Harry to describe his entire life story. Or at least, the edited, non-magical version, which, admittedly, did not take long to tell. And the beer was loosening Harry's tongue, he knew. Why else would he have confessed to an almost total stranger that life with the Dursleys was not all it was cracked up to be? That he was miserable. That he couldn't wait until the end of the holidays so that he could get back to school at Hog - He had stopped himself just in time.

Harry thought it was time to go, before he said something incriminating, or stupid, or both. But he was afraid to antagonise Dirk. You didn't want to get on the wrong side of a bloke that size. And, after all, he hadn't done anything apart from ask questions. Yet something Aunt Petunia had said was bothering Harry. He'd hardly taken any notice at the time, but now her words were repeating in his mind, making him uneasy.

"Be respectful, Harry. Don't go getting yourself into any trouble and showing us up. We don't want any scandal. We don't know if this man is _nice_ - he doesn't seem to be quite _our sort_. Don't do anything to make him angry – people can take offence at the slightest thing. You never know what might happen. Somebody said to me once, 'How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it.' And in my life I have found that to be very true. Just be careful you don't disgrace us."

Perhaps a cloud of doubt or mistrust had shaded his face - Dirk was observing him closely, his grey eyes shrewdly acute in the square-jawed, superhero face.

"So your Aunt and Uncle get narky about your nightmares? Not very helpful, that," he commented, getting in another question before Harry could summon the energy to get up to leave. "And you're dreaming about your godfather, right? The one who died in a fall? You'd think they'd want to help..."

They were leading questions, and Harry's reserves were crumbling. If he'd been just a little less tired, if his head hadn't been throbbing like a tom-tom, if he hadn't put away so many beers during the course of the afternoon... he might have resisted the note of sympathy. But, as it was...

"Their idea of helping is to have me certified!" he exclaimed bitterly. "To get some bloody shrink to say I'm bonkers, so they can have me locked up - get shot of me once and for all. Well, I won't do it! I won't have some damn psychiatrist probing into my mind, asking me stuff and expecting me to do a load of crappy tests - like seeing shapes in an inkblot, I ask you! It's worse than Trelawney and her sodding tea-leaves!

"Oh hell, I'm sorry. I'd better go."

He stood up unsteadily and lurched towards the door. Dirk put out a massive arm to save him from toppling sideways. Misjudging the distance, Harry flailed wildly, an arc of shaken beer pluming from the bottle, drenching the man in a hop-scented shower, plastering his vest to his craggy torso, separating the dark hairs into sticky spikes. For the first time Harry could see the skin below. There was a tattoo on the man's forearm that Harry had not noticed before; it had been hidden. A tattoo of a skull with serpents entwining it. The Dark Mark.

Harry's eyes met Dirk's in a flash of mutual recognition. An iron grip clamped round Harry's wrist, pulling him back into the room, forcing him to the floor.

"Sit down, Potter."

Harry had never mentioned his surname.

"Bummer, eh? I was hoping we could have spun this out a little longer. It was just getting interesting... If the Dark Lord had known that killing the traitor, Black, would upset you so much, he'd have done it a whole lot sooner! Well now, where do we go from here, Mr Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived ? You've been a bit too darned observant for your own good. Or was it me, being careless? Can't stick long sleeves in this weather - took the risk, and I've blown it. Puts me in a quandary, that. I'll have to make sure that my Master never gets to hear about it..."

Putting two fingers in his mouth he blew a piercing whistle. Tybalt and Iago appeared instantly, their dark coats gleaming with vitality, their hunters' instincts brutally raw, barely suppressed. Dirk stationed one dog by each door - Harry wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry.

Dirk flexed his fingers; Harry could almost hear the knuckles cracking. He could imagine being on the receiving end of that fist - he wouldn't last five minutes.

"Wh - What do you want?" he stammered.

"Ah, no. You see, Harry, **I'm** the one who asks the questions." Dirk gave a laconic smile. "I'm renowned for it. It's even earned me my nick-name - Socrates, you know. I have a reputation for extracting information - without using _Veritaserum_. In fact, I rarely even need a _Crucio_. People are usually surprisingly cooperative about answering my questions."

Still aching from the vice-like grip on his wrist, Harry could believe that only too easily. How had he got himself into this? Aunt Petunia had told him to be careful. Had she been trying to warn him? Had she suspected something? Or was it purely suburban prejudice fuelling her suspicions?

"Want another beer?"

How could he ask? How many pints could the man swallow before his head too started on 'rinse and spin cycle'? Harry stared at the floor trying to focus, saying nothing.

"C'mon, mate, don't make this harder than it has to be. My orders are to bring you in alive, so you don't have that much to worry about. How about a toast to the Dark Lord?"

"Go to hell!" Harry looked up defiantly, his eyes blurred with anger and alcohol. "If you're turning me in to Voldemort, just do it. Get on with it. Let's go now and get it over with."

"Blimey, you're in a rush. Not so fast. I've got a few more questions of my own first. My Master won't be expecting me to have found you so quickly. Even I was planning on keeping tabs on you for a few days, or weeks - on you and your family. He'll get you once I've finished with you; when I'm good and ready."

The grey eyes glittered, metallic and cold. The voice sharpened, rough edges honed, the easy-going accent sacrificed along with the gentle-giant act. What did the guy want? He had some hidden agenda, that much was obvious. How could Harry have trusted him?

"So much for 'unquestioning obedience'," spat Harry. "I thought you lot did what you were told. I thought you were all a bunch of mindless puppets, jumping when Lord Puppet-Master jiggled your strings." Hardly tactful, but Harry didn't think the situation could get much worse. "How did you find me, anyway?"

"Too many questions, Harry. '_Yours is not to reason why..._'. Your opinion of the Dark Lord is pretty wide of the mark, by the way. He is not one to suppress initiative - provided that its ultimate goal is the furtherance of the noble cause. Why does he enlist the support of powerful wizards, great minds, independent thinkers? To bring about his will and do his bidding! Sure, we have to swear fealty - and the occasional _Crucio_ helps to remind us where our loyalties lie – but in carrying out his glorious tasks, we need all our native wit and ingenuity.

"Listen, Harry, in the words of the Dark Lord himself, '_He who joyfully marches to music in rank and file has already earned my contempt_.' You see - he doesn't want to lead a herd of bleating sheep."

Dirk hunched his shoulders and narrowed his eyes to pale slits in imitation of his Master. It was difficult for a man of his bulk to appear wizened, but he seemed to diminish before Harry's horrified gaze into the shrunken, cadaverous form of Voldemort. Even his voice became an evil cackle as he completed the quotation, '_He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would suffice._' Are those the words of a man who aspires to control puppets? We've got brains; he wants us to use them.

"So, to get back to my questions..."

Harry had never thought he would ever be grateful to Snape. This Death Eater was a Legilimens too - probably even as skilful as Snape - but he wasn't prepared for Harry's Occlumency training. As he delved into Harry's mind, peeling back the layers of thought, exposing his ideas one by one as though unfolding a complex piece of origami, he came up against the wall of resistance. Harry concentrated all his energies into that wall...

"Whew! You're a tough nut to crack!"

Dirk came up for air, breathing deeply, sweating in the stuffy room. "Thought you'd be a piece of piss, a kid your age. Should have expected as much from the infamous Harry Potter. Now, shall we give this another try, or would you like me to soften you up a bit first? Your choice, mate."

For 'soften' read 'pulp', 'mash' or 'pulverize' thought Harry, sardonically. If only he'd had his wand with him. But Uncle Vernon had installed a gun-safe, and now kept the wand firmly under lock and key for the duration of the holidays.

"Why would you want to watch us, anyway?" asked Harry, stalling for time. "What's in it for you?"

Dirk strummed his fingers on the floor.

"You mean apart from learning the identities of Dumbledore's secret defensive Order, and the location of their headquarters; and the names of his associates within the Ministry, and possibly that of an infiltrator within our own ranks... That kind of information could pay handsome dividends...

"But you're right, kid, there was an ulterior motive. I like to keep an eye on my 'lifelong' Hexes - call it a kind of anthropological curiosity, a magical follow-up programme, a tracking study, if you like. People can respond so differently - with some the Hex can wear off after only a few years. But I rate your Aunt Petunia as one of my all-time successes."

Harry could feel yet another pillar of his unsatisfactory existence turning to rubble.

"You _knew_ my Aunt Petunia?"

"Oh, absolutely. In every sense of the word. For a while we made quite a couple. She was the Xantippe to my Socrates - before the disillusion set in. But that streak of snobbery was her undoing. Didn't think I was good enough for Miss Perfect Petunia, did she? Always pretending to be so friggin' 'genteel', wasn't she? Bit too prim and proper, even in those days. Didn't mind dabbling with a bit of rough, but when it came to the crunch, my genes didn't quite come up to scratch..."

Harry stared. He had assumed the guy was a gym junkie, or maybe doing steroids - but if he were a wizard the field was suddenly wide open. What was he - part giant? - part ogre? - part troll? But how could he be, if he were a Death Eater?

"Nobody rejects me and gets off scot free. I made damn sure she was going to live up to her nagging nick-name - took an effin' powerful Hex to do it too. Oh yes, Harry, your dear Aunt wasn't always the prudish, petty-minded, shrivelled, suburban shrew she is today. Not by a long chalk!"

"But memory modification is illegal, unless you're an Auror!" Harry protested.

"As is Mugglerisation - doesn't mean to say it doesn't happen." Dirk sounded complacent.

"Does she remember anything about her life before?" Harry demanded. He knew Aunt Petunia was more aware of the magical world than she let on, but how much did she remember?

"Oh yes! Just enough to ensure that her whole life is a continual disappointment..."

x x x

A series of heavy knocks, thumps really, interrupted them. They both leaped to their feet, Dirk moving behind Harry with his hand on his shoulder, precariously close to his windpipe. The thuds sounded again, and Uncle Vernon's voice called out, gruffly,

"Come on, open up! I know you're in there."

Gesturing at Harry to be quiet, Dirk opened the door. Uncle Vernon stood on the threshold, red-faced with irritation and impatience, uncomfortable in his 'neighbourly' role. He had been kicking the door with his foot, both hands being full: he was carrying a very large, spiny pot-plant. Without waiting for introductions he growled:

"It's time for the boy to come home. And my wife _insisted_ that I bring you this cactus as a house-warming present. There's some damn fool message too, stupid woman: 'To Socrates from Xa------' - can't even say the bloody name!"

It all happened very quickly. With a snarl, Iago launched himself at Uncle Vernon's leg. He dodged unsuccessfully, tripped and, in falling, thrust the prickly Opuntia into Dirk's arms. Whatever impelled the wizard to grab onto it, even momentarily, gave Harry his opening.

Aunt Petunia had sent that cactus over for a reason, he was convinced. With Dirk's attention focussed, briefly, on his punctured hands, Harry took a gamble, seized the stick from the flowerpot, aimed and bellowed,

"_Stupefy_!" and, just for good measure, "_Petrificus Totalus_!"

Dirk, Uncle Vernon, Iago and Tybalt froze, locked in the full Body Bind.

Harry looked down at the insignificant piece of stick. What distant memory, what residual instinct had made her keep it safe and accessible for all these years?

In his hand he was holding Aunt Petunia's wand.

END OF STORY


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